


Strawberries

by startrekto221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, F/F, Femlock, Girls Kissing, Sleepovers, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:48:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4455449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startrekto221B/pseuds/startrekto221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan drives an old camry. Sherlock's skin smells like strawberries. And it's not easy falling in love with a girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strawberries

Joan doesn’t remember how it started. Maybe it was in Anatomy class when she found herself sitting next to Sherlock, the only other girl in the room. Perhaps it was later in English when they did their group discussions and Sherlock said things like “I found it pandering and heteronormative, and hardly worthy of being called a classic”. Or it could have been even later, when the tall, mysterious brunette had asked for a ride home and Joan (against the advice of all her friends) had opened the door of her beaten up Camry.

Yet in any case, it had started. Every time the other girl’s chat bubble would glow green it brought a small smile to Joan’s face. Her mother often wondered whether her daughter had a new boyfriend because of the sheer number of times her phone would beep and she’d hurriedly text back. When their classes were on opposite sides of the school they’d strategically meet up in one of the public bathrooms that lined the wings and waste entire periods just talking. Joan had memorized the look of Sherlock’s profile as she leaned against the white tile. The crinkle between her eyebrows when she was perplexed. How very aware Sherlock was of her own aristocratic bearing, the artful way her loose black curls tumbled down her shoulders. How perfectly tight their school’s uniform looked on her. The way they used to sit on the benches between classes and Sherlock would always get up first when the bell rang and offer her a hand.

The touches were always so fleeting. A brush when passing an extra sheet of notebook paper before an exam or a note when the teacher was talking. Sitting on two nearby stools in the biology lab and their knees just barely touching. Those times when Sherlock would be impatient at something Joan was doing on the computer and press her warm hand on top of Joan’s to maneuver the mouse. Sherlock tugging on her sweatshirts to get her to go somewhere quickly. Leaning in to whisper something in her ear and laying a hand lightly on her shoulder. Using Joan’s shoulder as an armrest just to annoy her about being short. It rarely lasted. But it was enchanting.  

The place they talked the most initially was online. Two to three hour chats while Joan was working on her homework. Even longer on the weekends. They talked about everything and nothing. About people they knew, their classes and Joan’s part time work. But also about psychology, why people really behaved the way they did, why society was going to the dogs, things they found funny. Joan had never met anyone whose opinions she wanted to know about everything. No one thought in quite the way Sherlock did. It was new and bright and refreshing. She had never felt herself with anyone before Sherlock either. They built off each others jokes so well. They had running code words and abbreviations and hand signals they would use in public. If Joan said “turnip” in public Sherlock would burst out laughing and reply “watermelon though” and it would all make sense. It felt brilliant. Like a new lease on life. All school events found her leaving her old friends to dash after Sherlock wherever she went. People began calling them Sherlock-and-Joan, because they had become a group set. Whatever it was, and Joan still really didn’t know what it was: she didn’t mind being half of it.

She didn’t always think she was in love with Sherlock. Not really. She’d had close relationships before, and she knew that girl friends could bond without it being like that. But that was before Sherlock stayed over. When she had first come she had stood sheepishly at the door with a sleeping back and Joan had found her confusion so endearing. For once she had seemed like the teenager she was, lanky and awkward instead of how impressive and artful she could sometimes be. Then Sherlock had shook hands with her mum, who was glad to be meeting the famous Sherlock Holmes Joan could never shut up about, and she had said ‘Hello Mrs. Watson’ and smiled. She’d met Harry. She’d met Dad. And all the while Joan was waiting for it, for some cruel deduction or jape, but it had never come, and so she led Sherlock to her room upstairs.

Whenever friends were over they always slept in the same bed, and it had never felt strange or as spine-tinglingly exciting as it was when it was Joan and Sherlock across from each other, Sherlock’s curls lying carelessly across the pillow. Joan felt an odd sensation of privilege to see her like that, and a brief bit of shock when she realized she had never seen Sherlock out of their uniform before. This avatar was new. The pajamas decorated with bees and the way Sherlock looked just a bit sleepy after having washed off her mascara. The way her curls looked soft but with less shine now that she had brushed all the product out. Joan knew she was seeing something very few people had ever seen.

Sherlock had her elbow against the pillow as she lay on her side facing Joan. And Joan, as always, mirrored her. She looked different, Joan thought, but not bad. And when they were this close Joan could smell the scent of strawberry off her skin. Boys never smelled like that. Sherlock’s eyebrows were nice, and slightly shaped, and Joan was close enough to see where a few hairs were growing in. She imagined in her head a younger Sherlock, with thicker eyebrows and bushier hair--untamed by product--and her skin still smelling like strawberries.

She was in love with the fact that Sherlock was fixated only on her. The fact that as Sherlock’s eyes widened or she gestured wildly and spoke with her hands that her gaze never left Joan’s face. It had been dark when they went to bed. Her parents had long ago gone to sleep. Yet the pair of them were still awake talking by the light of Joan’s embarrassing dalek shaped nightlight. There was no clock in the room so they lost track of time. And as Joan had listened to Sherlock’s stories she noticed she had subconsciously moved even closer. Close enough, as it happened, to kiss.

It was then that they had snuck back downstairs. Joan hadn’t thought that Sherlock would be the type of friend she could have ice cream with in the middle of the night but she was. They went out onto the deck and watched the stars as they ate it, and later when they went upstairs they planned to go right to sleep. Which of course only happened after another hour of talking.

It must be different, kissing a girl, Joan had thought the whole while. She had kissed plenty of boys. It would probably be sweeter. Softer. More elegant? Or would it? She dreamed that she had, that Sherlock’s lips tasted like strawberries, that her hair smelled like lavender. Her cheek had been so smooth, her breath so hot. When Joan awoke she had felt guilty.

She still didn’t know what they were. Sherlock always seemed to seek out her alone to talk to. She smiled and laughed the most when she was talking to Joan. Surely that meant something? Yet despite the long months spent side-by-side Joan hadn’t even told her that she was her best friend.

Boys would flirt with both of them. Joan would date sporadically and every time Sherlock would get frustrated. Tell her every stupid thing that boy ever did until Joan had no choice but to dump them. By the time the school dance came she and Sherlock went by themselves. The same pop songs played over and over, the beats loud and thrashing as a hundred or so teenagers danced and popped and locked awkwardly to the music. It was then that Sherlock asked her to dance. Joan assumed it was because she was bored. Sherlock spun her around. Sherlock grasped her hands and they imitated the romantic couples and laughed. As a slow song came on Joan thought she would let go but she didn’t and they went through that one too, still, surprisingly, smiling.

Joan imagined another life in which she could tell her mother that she loved a girl. Another life in which she could tell Sherlock. She imagined waking up next to her in the morning and breathing in that strawberry heaven all the time. She imagined travelling to Spain and France, having Sherlock’s deductions and her wit and her humor all to herself. She imagined them laughing and dancing and talking and talking in a house of their own in front of a fireplace. She imagined what it might be like to make love.

The song was ending. She felt not for the last time that night that they shouldn’t be here as simply friends, they should be here together. But she told herself that she couldn’t possibly be sad. After all a wise man once said what has never lived can never die.

If there was ever a moment to tell Sherlock, Joan thought, that would have been it. When she looked so beautiful in violet satin and barrettes like crystals holding up her dark hair. But she was afraid to step too far. They had never talked about what this was. What they had become. The way it felt like Joan had seen into Sherlock’s soul. Weren’t they two halves of one whole? What if Sherlock didn’t see it that way? One wrong turn could lead her astray. One wrong step could crack the ice. One misstep might break the spell.

Joan doesn’t remember how it started. But she could not bare to see it end. So she said nothing.  


End file.
